Cecilia Llompart's Blog

“A wise man can play the part of a clown, but a clown can't play the part of a wise man.” ~ Malcolm X

If you had told me—any number of years ago—that I would someday get a clown measuring 6-by-4 inches tattooed on myself & covering the majority of my left thigh… I would have laughed in your face. Yet if you had shown me the clown—with her vintage suit decked in big hearts, & wavy black locks billowing behind her—I would’ve softened. I’ve always wanted a Sailor Jerry style piece, but the kissy-faced pin-up girls cosplaying with mermaid tails or dancing in a grass skirt weren’t for me. Then one day, I fell in love with a flash drawing by Morgan Patterson (& the rest is history)… For purely aesthetic purposes, I was hoping to get this one out by ye olde greeting card holiday Valentine’s Day. But I’m making my peace with being perpetually behind on just about everything in life. It took an extra three months to write than I thought, but it’s my longest essay to date!

Lately I’ve struggled to answer questions of how to combat internalized sexism, racism, & homophobia while living in the same region where I was raised & exposed to these forms of intolerance. I have written about both pride & shame, but this piece delves a little deeper… Into self-hate, & turning it into self-love. This essay also delves into my complicated (yet ever-evolving) relationship with my father—who received his autism diagnosis at the same time that I was being tested for it. He’s also one of the only members of my family who—alongside his own mother & brother—grew up in real poverty. I’ve seen my father be shamed & rejected by some of those closest to me… But I’ve also seen him laugh it off, & pick himself back up many, many more times than I could count. Of all the qualities which I know that I inherited from him, I treasure my sense of humor the most.

But I’ve also been admired for my resilience—which I know I owe to him, too.

So this one is for the dads, & for the clowns.

Three clowns walked into a bar… The first clown punches the second one in the nose, & the third one laughs. Or maybe it isn’t a punch in the nose—but a pie in the face, a baseball bat / rubber mallet on the head, an anvil dropped on the toe of an already comically enormous foot. The possibilities for violence—whether self-inflicted, or brought on by another—are endless! Thankfully, so are the laughs… This is the tried & tested formula for the classic three clown dynamic: There can be no comedy without a “straight man” against which the fool(s) appear that much more ridiculous. In a pair (or “double act”), it remains relatively easy to tell them apart: There is typically a “smart” one who parades around somewhat pompously, & a “dumb” one who tends to behave a bit more submissively—oftentimes acting like a sidekick who tends to annoy their more enlightened counterpart with an incessant stream of silly questions (& antics).

But when the duo becomes a trio, the lines of this hierarchy become blurred.

Thus, the third clown tends to be disadvantaged in some obvious (& tangible) way: They’re most commonly a mute who must rely on mimicry, pantomime, & possibly even musical talent showcased through the playing of instruments in lieu of dialogue, one-liners, or any opportunities for wise-cracking. This third clown also doubles as (& helps to flesh out) the audience… Always remaining on the periphery—expertly dodging blows, & possibly (even happily) fetching props (such as supplying pies), but above all giggling / laughing hysterically at the buffoonery of the other two—putting the audience at ease, & granting all other spectators permission to enjoy themselves as well. If a fourth clown is introduced, they tend to reinforce the role of the third… Not as a sidekick, but operating more like a twin: Twice the audience means twice the laughs! What is the point, after all, behind any sketch (or clown act) but to create laughter?

Long before I studied theater, & subsequently fell head over heels in love with the absurdists & the existentialists of that art form: I already harbored a deep admiration / profound affection for the art of clowning. I wouldn’t call myself one of those children who dreamed of running away from home to join any traveling circus… But as far back as memory serves me, I have loved to make others laugh. It’s the most obvious characteristic I inherited from my father: A man who couldn’t be serious to save his life—not at school, not at church, & most certainly not around the dinner table—much to my mother’s chagrin (at best, & to her ire at worst). This isn’t the essay in which I’ll be delving into all of the trauma my father endured during his childhood… Suffice to say, humor is what helped him deal with everything—from poverty to parental neglect—as the illegitimate son (& result) of a teenage girl’s long affair with a married man.

(I will definitely be writing about my paternal grandmother in a future essay.)

Despite growing up without a father figure in the home, my dad tried his best to be a good one for us. Having become a cameraman & (at the height of his career) a director by profession meant that many of my precious childhood moments were captured on film… These home movies fill in the gaps which my memory cannot. In them, I often hear my dad directing me from behind the camera—asking me interview-style questions, prompting me to perform in a certain way: As a baby—barely able to sit up, but lifting one leg up & down in rhythm with the aerobics instructor on the television set I’ve been propped up to watch (it was the ‘80’s, after all). As a toddler—still small enough to bathe in the sink, with soap bubbles in my hair & gasping between rinses… I’m already a ham for the camera as I answer his questions with the limited vocabulary I’ve learned—mostly in Spanish—giggling & making faces as I talk to the lens.

By the time I’m able to speak in complete sentences, we’ve left Puerto Rico & moved stateside… So the videos turn into letters we’re recording to send back to my grandparents still living on the island. You can hear my father laughing as I get the lines he has fed me wrong—holding a twig, I say: “Con esta varita mi mama me pela las papitas!” (meaning: “With this stick, my mom peels my potatoes”) instead of: “me pela las patitas” (what I was supposed to say is that she uses it to strike my legs). I should mention that my mother never actually used a switch on me, otherwise it wouldn’t be funny (but then I might have gotten my line right)! Questionable jokes aside—what is clear in all of these videos is how much I enjoy making them with my dad, how they had become our quality time together, & how much I loved to make him laugh. I do wish I could remember these moments, rather than relying on his documentation…

But such is memory—a sieve through which the sands of time escape quietly.

Recently, I unlocked a clue to my personality in the form of a core memory which I cannot in fact recall: My father asked if I remembered the time he took me to see Los Payasos de la Tele perform their show live while they were on tour in Puerto Rico. Apparently, I would watch their program every day for the first few years of my life… My father recounted that he hoisted me onto his shoulders as I clapped & sang along to every one of their songs. Although I have no recollection of this event, I have the feeling that it was an incredibly formative experience for me… Rewatching snippets of their show as an adult, I’m filled with a joy I can only describe as infantile: My father tells me it was a heart-warming (as well as hilarious) show—since one of the brothers brought up the death of their middle brother (Fofó who was replaced by his son Fofito) by explaining that God needed him to entertain all of the children up in heaven.

El show de Gaby, Fofó y Miliki (who became Gaby, Miliki, Fofito, & Milikito) are a perfect example of what happens when a trio of clowns (who are brothers) become four (two fathers & two sons). As I mentioned, adding a fourth clown doubles the audience for the antics of the first two—who remain center-stage. In the clown hierarchy, only the bottom two can be equal—serving as corners of the base of the performance pyramid. (Think Gummo & Zeppo in the early Marx Brothers.) However, a fourth also introduces a far greater versatility to the variety acts on rotation. Among the many reasons I love Samuel Beckett’s magnum opus Waiting for Godot is that it dares to invert the hierarchical shape by relegating Pozzo & Lucky (who quickly establish their relationship as master & slave) to the background—whereas the tramps Vladimir (or “Didi”) & Estragon (or “Gogo”) remain onstage at all times, & appear (to us) to be equals.

(Meaning they are objectively equals—despite their subtle dom & sub vibes.)

Beckett was an aficionado of vaudeville, as well as a fan of the silent films by (two other heroes of mine) Buster Keaton & Charlie Chaplin… This is evident throughout his writing—but particularly in his work for the theater, where the wordplay is rampant & the slapstick is written into the state directions. By the time I became a devotee of Beckett (& began writing my own short plays), my relationship with my father had almost entirely deteriorated—to the point of becoming antagonistic. I was a teenager who spent most of my time behind a locked door—either listening to music, reading, or scribbling into notebooks. My dad couldn’t relate to my interests, & resorted to mean nicknames (which were intended to get a rise out of me). Gone were the days of making anything together—of joking & laughing unless it was at the expense of my mother (who became our unwilling target because of her hot temper & many house rules)…

In all honesty, I don’t know when my relationship with my father became so strained—but I suspect it started around the time my sister was born. All of a sudden we were four, & our dynamic shifted rapidly. I became protective, & I also questioned more as I grew… I couldn’t understand—why my father would not stand up to my mother, why he would take her blows (& allow her to also hurt me & my sister), why he would justify the harm we were experiencing at her hands, & why he would simply crack jokes or attempt to make light of our situation… I grew increasingly resentful of his defenses of her behavior—of his claims that love forgives all. I grew even more angry at him for his inability to act than I felt at her for the hurtful actions towards us. There was a time when I left their house to strike out on my own during which I was convinced that I would never be able to forgive him even though I had managed to forgive her.

(This was around the same time my sister began speaking out about it, too.)

The period of emotional distance between my father & I stretched to nearly two decades… It lasted throughout my teens, my 20’s, & halfway into my 30’s. It wasn’t until a few years ago that I finally began to see my father in a softer light: I returned to my hometown, & ended up being diagnosed by an autism specialist. As fate would have it—my father had been referred at the same time to the same clinic, & ended up being diagnosed by the exact same councilor. It is a life-changing experience to receive any diagnosis at any age—yet there is both grief & relief when one receives a late diagnosis. Suddenly, my life made sense in such a way that it felt like being given a second chance at living it. My father & I talk or text each other nearly every day now—about poetry, politics, philosophy, psychology, parenting, religion, movies, music, & life in general… We make each other laugh, & we no longer make jokes at anybody’s expense.

Each one of my tattoos serves to remind me of my connection to a different member of my family… When I admitted to my dad that the clown on my leg was meant to be for him, he gave me a lopsided smile. Yet she is the only one of my tattoos which I have named: I call her Silly Sprinkles, & she reminds me not to take life too seriously—to laugh at myself & my (many) mistakes, to love as much (& as hard) as possible, to forgive those who cannot love me back, to dust myself off when I get knocked down, & to keep moving forward. Basically, they are the lessons that my father has taught me. Sometimes I feel I could weep over all the time we lost not understanding one another, & at the fact that the time we have left together is limited. But I’m also trying to be grateful for the moments of conversation & connection we’re able to enjoy now… My father is becoming my greatest mentor—as well as my oldest, & wisest friend.

Words which a younger version of me never in a million years thought I’d say.

When I sat down to write this, I thought it would be the essay in which I start to describe what it’s like to live with autism… In which I admitted how deeply ashamed I was of my father’s (not to mention many of my own) traits—until I learned to laugh at (then finally embrace & even feel proud of) them. But I’ve reached a point in my life where I understand myself well enough that I don’t need many others to understand me. I’m also reaching an age where I’m truly fortunate enough to have accomplished a few of my dreams—which means I get to dream entirely new ones. One of these—as ridiculous as it may sound—is to someday attend clown school (yes, it’s a thing & there are quite a few)… There, I’d like to develop a form of play therapy designed for children on the spectrum & call it “Discover Your Inner Clown!” All children possess an inner clown, but most of us are conditioned to suppress the antics of this trickster.

Western society may have relegated the clown to nonstop birthday parties & horror movies—yet the art of clowning can actually be traced back to ancient civilizations (& many native tribes have a history of clowning)… Unlike jesters (who serve to entertain the court) clowns are able to fulfill a more meaningful, psychological role. Their performance should elicit a range of emotions, often reflecting the complexities of being human right back to us—with a sprinkling (or heaping helping) of humor to help us accept our biggest flaws & foibles. In certain societies, the roles of priest & clown have even been held by the same individual: As the late sociologist & theologian Peter Berger wrote, “It seems plausible that folly & fools, like religion & magic, meet some deeply rooted needs in human society.” As with the child in the folktale the Emperor's New Clothes —who is the only one who dares speak the truth—the clown “tells it like it is.”

Without our clowns, we’d be lost in an often cruel & largely mirthless world.

My father, like so many of our students, became a class clown to disguise the fact that he was struggling to keep up with his classmates. Nearing his 80’s, he still can’t recite the alphabet (in English)—yet he can quote hundreds of verses & lyrics (in Spanish). I used to pray for a far more serious & studious university professor-type of person as a father figure… I resented mine for being nothing like that. But nowadays, I couldn’t be more humbled nor grateful that the man who is my father can make me smile—no matter how dark nor difficult things may feel—with a simple facial expression or a single turn of phrase. His wit is razor sharp, & cuts deep—right to the heart of the matter. Yet his own heart is as big & bleeding as they come: He’s always looking out for those who’ve been beaten or downtrodden by life’s unfair circumstances. Most of all, I love his loyalty to keeping our family together—no matter what—for all these years.

“Educate a boy, and you educate an individual. Educate a girl, and you educate a community.” ~ Adelaide Hoodless

I had the honor of helping with a second “Crafts for a Cause” set up by Buena Market, which also helped me come back to finally finish the essay I started writing about my first experience lending a hand over the summer. In truth, I’ve spent a significant amount of time reflecting on the importance of community…

Indeed, I believe we all have—times being what they are. So this is the second installment of what I hope will be a series of essays—each one examining how different communities I’ve been a part of have shaped & continue to shape me… I’m already looking forward writing the next (about our most recent experience)!

But before I get ahead of myself, I need to revisit last summer—which is when I first met the small business entrepreneurs & family behind Raíces Plant Truck & Taco Riendo Truck (who I’ll be focusing on in the third installment). For now, I hope you enjoy this flashback to the fateful day in June when our paths crossed.

Some fabulous, fellow 1st & 2nd generation Americans who I feel truly fortunate to call my friends in our adopted hometown in Central Florida.

I remember the exact moment—as though it were a movie in my mind—that I first felt proud to be a bilingual speaker. I was eighteen—a freshman at Florida State University paying a visit to the bookstore on campus… Having declared myself an English Major—with a concentration in Creative Writing instead of Literature—I was quite eager to show off my skills get to work. I’d already met some self-proclaimed poets around campus & begun attending their club, but hadn’t decided if that was my genre. My notebooks were full of play-writing, & I’d only just bought what was to become the first of many poetry journals… 📓

In fact, I knew painfully little about poetry—as most college freshmen quickly discover. English Professors don’t typically assign textbooks, so I had student loan money reserved for that purpose burning in my pocket… I high-tailed it to the bookstore to peruse that particular section, & there I picked up a copy of The Captain’s Verses by Pablo Neruda—a poet I’d heard my father mention before. It was a bilingual edition, but having been educated here in the United States (& therefore, in English) meant I wasn’t entirely comfortable reading in Spanish—unless it was a comic book, or a bedtime story designed for children.

As I thumbed through the book, I remember feeling relatively unimpressed by the verses—but I was skipping over the originals & only reading the translated versions. Eventually, my eyes tricked my brain as they rapidly skimmed from left to right: Only tasting the lines in Spanish, at first… Then I began to savor them, & then I began to devour them—skipping the translations entirely. “My goodness,” I thought… “The originals in Spanish are SO much better!” It’s likely I shouted at the shelves—my heart beating faster in my chest. So I bought the book (along with a stack of others), & have revisited it many times since then.

But it was a rather bittersweet moment—for it was standing there stumbling through the lovesick captain’s versus that I first felt proud about the fact that I was a native Spanish speaker. The pride was suddenly eclipsed by shame as I started to unpack all the reasons I hadn’t felt that pride before… As I started to unpack just how ashamed I’d been of my family (especially my parents), my heritage, & my rich cultural inheritance (up until that point). As the year went on, I realized I wasn’t growing homesick… I was culture-sick. After giving up on a Philosophy minor—I declared myself a Spanish Literature minor instead.

I wish I could say that my shame ended there, but it had only just begun... I’d go on to develop a stutter—which is purportedly more prevalent in bilingual children—when I volunteered to read aloud in my Spanish Literature classes. I’d go on to publish my own debut book of poetry—only to crumble the day I gifted a copy of it to my grandmother, & realized she wouldn’t be able to read it (since it was in English). I’d go on to move to France & become trilingual, only to discover that I had a thick Hispanophone accent when I spoke French. I’d finally move back to Florida—where I felt most at home—because of family.

But my chosen family, & my definition of what it means to be family, has been a fluctuating thing… I felt desperately alone as (I honestly appeared to be) the only Puerto Rican living in Paris. I found myself feeling desperately alone yet again early last summer, as (again I appeared to be) the only person shouting into the abyss about the escalating conflict(s) overseas. The horrific plight of the Palestinian people was triggering affecting me in profoundly unexpected ways, & I couldn’t help but wonder if it was my experiences as a Puerto Rican raised in the United States which flared my desperation & fueled my despair…

Yet it didn’t escape my attention that there were other first-generation folks—many with Latinx or Indigenous backgrounds—who also seemed to be openly struggling. This is when I reached out to friends who had just opened their bakery Bandidas to ask if there were any fundraisers on the horizon, & they redirected me to our mutual friend Steph—the absolute visionary behind the Buena Market brand & experience. After some pestering, she confessed that she was planning on testing out a new initiative called “Crafts for a Cause” & that the idea was motivated by her own desire to do something for Palestine.

I felt electric when she asked if I’d like to participate—as though the strings of fate were becoming knotted instead of flapping like loose ends in the wind… It was a crossroads at which nearly all of my passions intersected—language, justice, heritage, food, family, education, community, children, & the arts. I said yes, & tried not to freak these friends out with my enthusiasm. The truth was, I needed to surround myself with like-minded individuals as much as I felt the need to protest the war. I knew—I believe we all knew—there wasn’t much we could do to help the people of Palestine besides show our solidarity.

I’ve participated in a fair amount of protests throughout my life… Ever since I stumbled upon my first animal rights march while walking around Old San Juan with my cousin in Puerto Rico: We were both handed signs, & simply went along chanting until we reached the Capitol Building before breaking off again to continue our excursion of the city. I’ve linked arms & joined in song with fellow anarchists during Occupy Wall Street, helped surround the White House to protest the expansion of pipelines, & disappeared into a crowd of thousands who took to the streets in Paris during the 2015 Climate Summit.

I’ve also lost some of that fire in my belly—growing more bitter & cynical with the passing years, & watching as the world only seems to worsen in countless ways… I’ve discovered that I’m disabled, & only grown angrier at the appalling disenfranchisement of entire sectors of the population. I’ve learned that hope is an all too easy thing to extinguish—that it is far more challenging to fan the flames necessary to keep it alive. But I do still believe in the power of coming together—if only to break bread, to converse, & to help educate children. It seems to me that these simple tools are also the most powerful in changing…

Changing hearts. Changing minds. Changing the self. Changing the world, too.

None of these things can be done alone. In fact, the older (I won’t say wiser, though one can hope) I become the more I realize that nothing can be done alone… Yet there is ample medium between doing things in isolation & doing things en masse (French adopted by English meaning “in a mass”). It’s easy to feel like part of a movement—part of something massive—but difficult to feel like part of a community while participating in marches or protests. I do still believe in the importance of such demonstrations—there is a time & place for them—but I have also come to realize that it’s easy to be a face in the crowd…

Being part of a community—meaning being in actual communion with others—takes far more effort. Showing up is the only thing required to contribute to a protest, & to be one more body in an ocean of bodies chanting or shouting in unison offers a kind of high which can only be achieved surrounded by that many other humans acting as a single force… Like an army going into battle, or a stadium full of fanatics cheering for their team. It is quite another thing entirely to be on the team that is working together—each with their own part to play—towards a common goal. As the crowd dissipates—so does the high…

Eight months have passed since this unforgettable day in June—yet I still feel its glow. It lit a light inside of me which won’t soon be extinguished. It served to remind me of the goodness still thriving in the world, & of how I don’t even have to go looking all that far to find it. I can’t say for certain whether any life was altered or minds were changed or hearts were touched… I can’t even be sure that our fundraising effort made any impact whatsoever. I highly doubt that any amount of money can help alleviate the grief of an entire population suffering an ethnic cleansing or a genocide—when it is the root of these evils.

All I can say is that I was changed. All I can be sure of is that I felt connected to something greater than myself—something my ancestors would be proud of. Somehow, it felt more powerful than writing a poem. Even if all I did was show up—smile at strangers, teach a handful of children how to make art, & temporarily forget my sorrow in the company of friends. It was a balm for my soul, & provided a container into which I could pour my grief… Which in turn, helped me carry it better. Helped me carry myself into the future—not a dark & dismal future, but one where hope still blossoms despite the odds against it.

{ Shout-out to who I couldn’t have done this day without, & who quite frankly deserves an entire essay of gratitude for his efforts as my co-educator…

To be continued in Pt. 3! }

“What’s in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours. A star, a daystar, a firedrake rose at his birth.” ~ James Joyce { Chapter 9, Ulysses }

As a storyteller, I find it remarkably difficult to tell my own story. I’m convinced that I share this affliction with other narrators… Preferring to become invisible, or to shrink into the background of the stories we weave—to be a fly on the wall, or to be the wall itself—that is the goal! But I set out to discover my backstory—to explore the myth(s) of my origin—with this project, & I still intend to follow through. I shared of this piece (or perhaps just the preface to it) over two years ago… So here’s Part 2 , in which I introduce you to my great-grandmother.

My great-grandmother, my maternal grandmother, & her precious poodle.

Her name was Mama Chila… Or so I believed, because that is what I heard her called by everyone else. My mother Brenda—whose name is fairly unique in the family—would boast about being one (the 11th to be precise) of over fifty grandchildren. My grandmother Norma—who shares a name with her eldest daughter—was the fourth of twelve children… All birthed by this matriarch of the farm in Quebrada, Puerto Rico. Her husband, the patriarch, was known to family & farmhand alike as Papa Juancho. My abuela spoke incredibly tenderly of both her parents for the rest of her life—eyes watering wistfully as I asked my questions about her childhood. Her father had passed some time before I was born, but her mother was still around to see the first few years of my life.

The memories I have of her are blurry & disjointed, at best… But apparently, I enjoyed lengthy conversations with my great-grandmother at the handful of big family gatherings I attended as a child. I can only imagine what it was we talked about, but I was a precocious child who gravitated to the company of elders from early on. I do remember being rocked to sleep by abuela—as she sang beautiful lullabies in Spanish—enough times to make her arms the place I felt most safe in the world. I don’t know how old I was when I finally realized that Chila was a nickname for Cecilia—meaning I was the grandchild named after her mother—but I remember it came as quite the surprise… So what did the youngest Cecilia speak to the oldest Cecilia about? Only the angels know.

I was much older when I learned that Cecilia Echeandia (not yet called Mama Chila) was 21 when she married Juan Felix Gonzales (not yet Papa Juancho)—who at the age of 37 was a full 16 years her senior. The feelings that came with this knowledge were softened in learning their marriage was opposed by one of Cecilia’s older sisters—who also married a Gonzales brother only five years her senior. All feelings aside, the age discrepancy certainly helps to explain how our matriarch went on to mother a dozen children… As well as how she lived to see her eldest grandchildren give birth to great-grandchildren. In a large family that goes by nicknames (& numbers) to keep track of who belongs to who, I believe there is a special tie to the one(s) you share your name with.

I’ve always loved my name—despite how frequently I’ve heard it butchered, disemboweled, & just plain mispronounced… I’ve also had many nicknames—yet none which I answer to more often than the one used by my family & my dearest friends. I delight in hearing my niece & nephew call me “titi Ceci,” & when I named this newsletter “La Belle Vie de Ceci” I was also delighting in the fact that « ceci » is a word in French—which offers a fun (if nonsensical) meaning for fellow Francophiles. It isn’t the beautiful life of Cecilia—because I don’t feel like I can speak for all the Cecilia’s. Even if I could, I don’t know that I’d call all their lives beautiful. The beauty lies in the mystery… In what I can’t remember speaking about with my elders, but believe I heard with my heart.

To be continued…

“What should young people do with their lives today? Many things, obviously. But the most daring thing is to create stable communities in which the terrible disease of loneliness can be cured.” ~ Kurt Vonnegut

I’m going to try my best to avoid committing that most elementary of mistakes it seems many writers make—which is to preface this ramble in a preamble with any specific definition of the buzzword which I’ve chosen to dissect below… 🤓

The word being community, it’s tempting to reach for a dictionary—yet such a simple (& seemingly) innocuous gesture could sabotage the integrity of my piece entirely… Since the point here is to offer my very own (perspective &) definition!

I would instead like to offer a bizarre tidbit about the autistic brain: I read our prefrontal cortex develops faster, but doesn’t mature until later, & begins to deteriorate earlier than that of allistic (believed to be baked by age 25) brains… 🧠

Enjoy the essay, friends! 🤍

~ 📸 of me in action by the owner of Raíces Plant Truck ~

At the age of 35, I decided to move back to my hometown in Central Florida…

I’d been abroad for five years—long enough to make France feel like home—even spent the majority of the lockdown there. But when travel became such a restricted thing, I began to miss my family too much. I finally cracked when my younger sister’s second little one was born. So in late 2021, I found myself living in “the sunshine state” once more. The last time I called this subtropical region home was when I rage quit & moved away for college at age 17… Which (if you’re enough of a dweeb to do the math—like I am) means that I had been away for another entire 17 years. Of course, I ended up crash-landing with my parents often enough over those adventure-filled seasons to keep tabs on the place. I simply never expected to be back heartbroken & completely broke yet again by choice—much less that this particular time around, I’d stay put… For long enough to allow my roots to begin to dig themselves back into the earth.

This past summer marked 30 years since my Puerto-Rican parents chose this town as where they’d like to raise their own children. As the eldest daughter, I’d already bounced from sunny island in the Caribbean to coastal (but rural) Tampa to the suburbs of Orlando with them… So I was already 8 (going on 9) when we arrived, & settled in Lakeland as a family of four. It felt strange that there were far fewer Spanish-speakers here—in comparison to the schools & neighborhoods I was accustomed to where we celebrated our heritage. Then instead, due to the racism in the form of bullying & comments under people’s breath & frequent teasing & other things I won’t describe, I eventually grew to hate the fact that we were the ones who spoke a different language. I grew to feel ashamed of my origins. I adapted—or rather, assimilated. It was far easier for me & my sister than it was for our parents, so I even grew to resent them…

It wasn’t until I moved away that I was able to see any of this… Or to feel any amount of pride in where I came from, & where I grew up. But it took longer than that to feel safe here—safe to be completely myself, or to even consider raising my own little children here. Last summer, I wrote about local pride & what that means to me. I was feeling aglow after attending a fabulous bake-sale fundraiser for trans-rights organized by Gabby ( of ) & her amazing wife Gio… Who together form Bandidas (favorite bakery & catering in town). This year, I was feeling increasingly depressed—due to world news—not to mention, deeply ashamed to call myself a citizen of this money-driven, war-mongering country. So in a desperate attempt to do anything besides doom-scroll on the couch, I begged our mutual friend Steph (the powerhouse behind Buena Market) to assist with any fundraisers for June.

That’s how I got to be a fly on the wall for a genuinely inspiring experience, & truly beautiful event. We provided easy, eco-friendly crafts to children & their families for free… Regardless of their ability or willingness to donate—or even discuss—the causes being promoted. We made it clear the organizations we’d chosen to promote were those which directly served children affected by this ongoing conflict abroad… Buena Market designed a flyer with a simple way to scan in donations to either the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund, or Operation Olive Branch. But no record was kept nor receipt was exchanged, because the goal wasn’t in collecting funds—which we sadly knew wouldn’t make a dent in this horrific conflict. The goal was simply to raise awareness, & provide a safe space to broach the subject with one’s children... To help teach them what it means to belong to a far greater, global family. What it means to care—deeply.

As an educator, I can understand why so many guardians strongly hesitate to discuss such distressing issues as starvation with children. My folks certainly avoided many topics. I still hope to have a child someday, & I know I’ll hesitate strongly not to shelter them from harm. But I remember growing up feeling increasingly alarmed, because I knew few adults around me were being fully honest. My distress turned into suspicion of most adults—fear I’ve never fully shaken… However, I hope I’ve begun to now that I’m one of the adults making choices which will impact children for generations to come. I’ve often taught (or tried to teach) my students the importance of caring about more than just one’s family members—that all of humanity is one big family—but it isn’t often I’ve felt like I lived up to that example… This experience was one of those rare times, & I’m still unpacking many sentiments that came with it. { TBC in Pt. 2 }

“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

~ Samuel Beckett

What started as a summer hiatus now seems to have turned into an autumnal hermitage, which I don’t yet know whether I’ll manage to shake for the winter—or not. Meaning, I have spent several months rearranging the literal—as well as figurative—furniture of both my home & heart. In truth, I’ve been sleeping far too much, & gotten nearly nothing one might call “productive” done… But this has come with rich rewards! I’ve reconnected with myself, with a few dearly missed friends of bygone eras, & have even made a few new connections. It’s been years since I chose to prioritize relationships, & it’s truly gratifying to rediscover skills for making others—especially children & teenagers—feel both safe & seen… It has also been rather gratifying to realize that I finally feel both safe & seen. I know I’ll be unwrapping the gifts this year has dropped into my lap for many seasons to come. Yet I want to reflect on one feeling in particular in this post, as well as share the work of art (a collage) which I feel most proud of creating to date… 🕊️

Photo of my entry for the “Breaking In” exhibit at a local gallery

Sometimes we fail… We fail to find the words—to comfort a grieving friend, or to describe an aching feeling. We can fail to protect the ones we love from coming to harm—or worse, we can turn out to be what harms them most. But hardest, & perhaps most frequently of all—we fail ourselves all of the time… What matters most is what happens next. The steps we take here will be the shakiest, & feel like the most difficult—but they determine the core essence of our very being… Particularly in the sense of our being in communion with others. Among my chiefest faults—I would readily list the direct admission, & the full acceptance of my many shortcomings. In short, I don’t particularly relish being confronted about where I’m currently dropping the ball… Since (chances are) I already know, & have been hyper-fixating on it—but thank you!

The title I gave my piece is a play on the expression “pass the peas”

Sure, few among us could admit to ever feeling truly eager to admit defeat. In ancient Greece, they tried to teach through spectacle & theater that hubris is often the downfall of man. After that, the Book of Genesis tried to convince us the woman was responsible… But we’ll digress someday. To err is human, after all, & our imperfections certainly do play a large part in what separates us from the divine. I have to wonder, in that case, what thin device separates us from the demonic? I shudder to think that only prayer has that power, but that is what I was taught as a child. It’s little wonder I’m often spiraling into dark philosophical doubts… Forgive me, dear (few remaining) readers—if I stumble drunkenly down streets of superstition, fall into foxholes of absolute nonsense, or disappear behind a burning bush to relive myself for a moment.

The collage was accepted & displayed—titled “Pass the Peace”

The difficult truth I most hate to admit is that I’ve failed at so many different things—so many times—that I’ve had to learn to make it into a little game I’ll play with myself… One in which nobody really keeps a score, the points don’t make sense or matter, & the only way I can possibly lose is by not laughing at myself along the way. Essentially, I got so used to failure that I had to learn to have fun with it—even if it rarely felt enjoyable. The one who I have to credit for equipping me with such a necessary life skill would have to be my father… But I wouldn’t feel this gratitude or so generously towards him until tragically recently—as we each underwent individual evaluations for a late diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder. Time has smoothed our roughest edges out, yet it was a long road of stumbling (& of often bumping into each other) to get here.

I chose this frame to make it appear as though it were floating

I see it in so many students I’ve worked with… Ones who become the class clown (like my father did) to cope with the frustration of falling ever further behind their peers—especially emotionally/developmentally—due to a lack of complete diagnosis or unpicked up on learning disability. Others who become artists (like I did) & withdraw socially—seeking attention only on the page or stage aka where it's deemed appropriate to do so. But then I burned out… As anyone using art as their biggest tool to cope who then attempts to make a living off said art most likely will (without other supports in place). I hate to say it, dear readers, but I wonder whether some of us are simply set up for failure from the start… In a society that shames our children until they give up clapping, dancing, drawing, drumming, painting, singing—or expressing joy.

I was so delighted to see it displayed among so much lovely art

If I could go back & say anything to my younger self (& if I could be certain that I’d actually listen), I would try to convince a far more energetic but less experienced me to try to be less afraid of failure from the start. To think—how frequently that fear gripped & ultimately paralyzed me until I lost almost every joyful expression I knew (besides poetry… Until the day I lost that, too.) Only to discover halfway through this life that it was in that holy & fertile ground of my greatest failures which I was able to grow, & to prune myself of sorrow. That pushing past failure is where I found satisfaction or any personal success—as though it were failure itself which fertilized the fruit & flowers. It may be an overly simplistic & all too perfumed approach—but as I once called myself a poet, I’ve been known to take those from time to time. (Another fault, I guess!)

I feel encouraged to keep experimenting with mixed-media arts

My father is one of those rare people who never stopped expressing joy. He didn’t let the world dictate how he should live his life, overcame obstacles I couldn’t possibly fathom experiencing, & has never really stopped evolving. His laughter is infectious, & he is constantly cracking himself up with his own jokes. I’m convinced that he & I were a pair of circus clowns in another life—much to the endless dismay of my exceedingly patient mother. But he taught me the lessons I’ve been most grateful for, as of late: How to laugh at myself. How to get back up regardless of how often I fall due to my own clumsiness, or am knocked back down by circumstances. How to bring out the best in others by being their biggest fan. How to survive hardship, & maintain that sparkle in the eyes . I know he won’t read this—but I’m glad he’s still around.

~ fin ~

p.s. He’s still alive, he’s just not a big reader! But don’t worry guys, I’ll probably read it to him & he’ll probably just shrug his shoulders & quote some movie I’ve never even heard of then we’ll both go down parallel rabbit holes of absurd jokes.

“Blessed are the Peacemakers…”

from the Beatitudes of Jesus { as recounted in the Gospels }

{ portrait of two white rock doves in Seville, Spain }

How do we write from the heart? This is the question that has been on my mind lately… Ever since I realized that I was writing out of grief once again. Grief is an all too familiar feeling, so writing became an all too familiar refuge. Silly of me to think the days (& nights) of needing such a crutch simply to survive were well in the past. While living in Paris, I even went so far as to start proclaiming that I officially “quit” calling myself a poet (because I stopped identifying as one).

{ most of these photos taken at isleta de los Pájaros }

Although I ceased my writing—even as some of my best ideas were coming to me—the world hasn’t ceased its cruelty. As I turned towards a calling that felt more important for me to pursue—that of becoming a councilor—it only deepened my desire to be a source of healing & strength for others. For a time, I thought & told many that it was poetry which saved my life—but it was my own willingness to get well that did… Writing was merely the instrument which I chose to pick up.

It worked well (for a time)… It was a sharp tool, & could make deep incisions. It felt like I could dissect my soul on the surgical table of the literary arts, & it felt good to do so. Great, even—especially during the discovery of my process, & the composition of a first book—until the process itself started to feel soulless. I was no longer writing for myself, but for an audience… For accolades & awards that I tossed aside & promptly forgot about in order to pursue/produce a fresh batch.

I still remember those early days of discovering poetry… How potent it could feel—how like magic in the trembling hands of a student struggling in nearly every other subject at school… I was a teenager, but I was dangerously treading water in many ways—academically, emotionally, physically, psychologically, sexually, spiritually: I was beginning to drown, & I was beginning to lose my belief in God—alongside every good thing in this world—as I had already lost faith in myself.

The first poem I wrote (worth its salt) was in response to the prompt to write a poem as though it were a prayer. As a freshman college student who had just left the church—by moving away from home & existing outside familial obligations for the first time—I’d never considered such a blasphemous thing before… So of course, I decided to dive right off the deep end. I went for the most well known prayer of all: In one sitting, I rewrote the Lord’s Prayer as a modern narrative.

This piece ended up being my first real publication (in Issue 128 of TriQuarterly which was still in print & which my professors told me was cause to celebrate)… Naturally, I thought: “I must be onto something here!” & decided to explore this newfound way of expressing myself even further… I had known I wanted to be a writer since I was a child, but what I immediately realized & most enjoyed about poetry as a particular genre was this profound similarity to prayer (& to music).

So writing poetry rather quickly replaced closing my eyes to say a prayer before bed, & I found myself more replenished in the solitude of this act than by most acts. Thus, I found myself in the company of poets, pursuing it as a path almost fervently… There came a time when I even called poetry my only religion, & in truth it had become exactly that. Yet the only other poem I produced which took the shape of a recognizable religious text is the one I present to you in this post.

Even after I stopped attending church regularly, the way I dealt with my more conservative family members—or fielded the questions of those whose opinions I still greatly cared about—was simple enough… I told everyone who asked that I still believed “the words in red.” As anyone who has owned a red letter edition of the Bible knows, I’m referring to dialogues attributed directly to Jesus Christ (& this was often sufficient to end the interrogation on the subject of my salvation).

Truth is, I’ve always found it easier to be irreverent about paternalistic figures (especially in monotheistic religions)—because of my distaste for authority, & my own trauma with both my parents. But I’ve always had a fondness for the more mischievous, misfit son who often causes a ruckus in the name of justice. When I rewrote the Lord’s Prayer, I remember feeling angry. But then I wrote my own take on this section of the Sermon on the Mount, all I felt was deep grief & loss…

~ The (Other) Beatitudes ~

Blessed are the wingless, for their bones
are not hollow—but heavy with want.

Blessed is whatever flocks homeward,
as well as whatever remains—as I do—

for the winter. Blessed are those who
shoulder up. Blessed those who suffer

no fools. Blessed what is in me to tip
an intimate scale of guilt, and blessed

that guilt—for it knows no immediate
bounds. For it made me better than I am.

Blessed is the solemn animal that weighs
every question asked, finally, by the river.

Blessed is all the debris that waits inside
of our monuments. Blessed is your body—

big enough for the both of us. Blessed
are my hands for falling upon all which

they don’t understand. Blessed the moon,
bled white, bandaged in silk. Blessed too,

the stars—for it is with the mercy of carrion
birds that they dip their long fingers in silver

and pick her carcass clean. Blessed is the sea,
graveyard of time. Blessed are the black waves

that congregate like mourners. Blessed are those
who have done their weeping, and are quieter now.

“The thing is that any sophistication I have, aesthetically, comes from Vogue [Magazine] and Harper’s Bazaar. In the 60’s I never missed an issue—even if I had to steal to get them.” ~ Patti Smith { in Interview Magazine }

There is a story I’ve been wanting to share for quite some time, but I never really found the space to tell it. You see, the front cover of my first book of poetry—featuring the top half of a naked woman showing a slight bit of side boob, but mostly her back (as a nod to the title, The Wingless ) while crawling around in the dark—is actually only half of a photograph from a spread for Vogue Australia. I originally found it on Tumblr, then used TinEye to track it to the source—down to the exact date & issue of the magazine.

When I contacted my editor to tell him that I’d finally found the image I wanted on the cover of my book—he laughed & told me to keep looking. First of all, it was a photograph taken by a fashion photographer who lived in NYC & whose work had graced the covers of multiple famous magazines...

Secondly, our budget was $200—which was shameful to offer even an amateur in the field. “Gerry” (my editor) has been in the business of publishing poetry since he founded the press—which he has almost single-handedly run & kept afloat since the 1970’s… I knew that I would do well to listen to him.

I went back to clicking through page after page of mostly dull copyright free images. In doing so, I was fairly dismayed to find where so many of the covers I recognized from shelves at bookstores had come from. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to contact the editors of the magazine. So I wrote the following:

“To Whom It May Concern:

My name is Cecilia Llompart, and I have fallen in irrevocable love with a photograph from a 2009 issue of your magazine. I am a poet, and my very first book is about to be published by a small university press in the United States. They have, rather graciously, allowed me to suggest my own image for the front cover. While it has been suggested that I use an image that is in the public domain, I have scoured hundreds upon thousands of these... Many of which are intriguing in their own right, but none which captures the essence of my work. I am, quite frankly, tired of the same, droll, stuffy, unimaginative images that have dominated the covers of books for centuries. Don't judge a book by its cover, they say—but why not?

Because even when the best writers have the courage to produce work that could ignite minds and provoke necessary changes to society, too many designers lack the backbone to startle the world! I admire the visually stunning work often produced by Vogue—its impetus to be on the cutting edge of society, to push the envelope in terms of the way we view everything around us, to ignite an urgent sense of beauty even in the most tedious of lives. A good poem, likewise, is one that teaches us to look at the world in a way we hadn't known how to look before, and I hope my book does just this. My publisher doesn't believe you’d be willing to grant us the rights to the usage of the photograph…

But I am not merely asking for this. I am begging—imploring—that you grant us permission. The image in question is so seductive, so animalistic, so beautiful, so powerful, and so poetic that I couldn’t possibly be satisfied with another. I dream of a world in which fashion photography is respected as the art form that it is, as having as much substance as a painting or as a poem. Likewise, I dream of a world in which poetry is no longer considered boring nor inaccessible—but just as vital as news, and as evocative as music. I know that I’m dreaming big... But if you were a dreamer once too, or are still one, please send me kind words and good news. I hope this finds you all very well, and thank you in advance for any response.

Sincerely,

Cecilia Llompart”

To this (admittedly pathetic) plea, I received a rather efficient but nevertheless incredibly kind response from an editor who will remain nameless. She thanked me for my thoughts, mentioned that the magazine didn’t retain the rights to the image—but clarified that the photographer still did. She then gave me his name & contact info & encouraged me to reach out.

So I followed her advice:

“Dear Mr. Will Davidson,

My name is Cecilia Llompart, and I’m writing to tell you that I have fallen in irrevocable/irreparable love with a photograph of yours.

I’m a poet by profession, and my first book is about to be published by a small university press. It’s an exciting moment in my life—the beginning of my professional career as an artist—and a moment for me to stand in awe and appreciation that I can, indeed, make an entire life for myself as an artist. The press was established in 1972 as a publisher of poetry exclusively… But has since evolved into a highly regarded name in the world of poetry presses—as well as a publisher of contemporaries, short-form fiction, translations, and regional social history. Among its most notable achievements was publishing the first three books by Rita Dove—the third of which was awarded the Pulitzer Prize. The same Rita Dove who served as Poet Laureate of the United States during the Clinton administration, and was one of my own professors until recently. It’s how I discovered the press myself and subsequently submitted my own manuscript for consideration. They had an "open" reading period this past October, and my work was chosen out of the “slush pile” of (I’m told) over 500 submissions.

Furthermore they have—rather graciously, I might add—allowed me to suggest my own image for the front cover. While it’s been suggested that I use an image in the public domain, I’ve scoured hundreds upon thousands of these... Many are intriguing in their own right, but none even begins to capture the essence of my work. I am, quite frankly, tired of the same, droll, stuffy, outdated, unimaginative images that have dominated the covers of books for centuries. Don't judge a book by its cover, they say—but why not? Because even when the best writers have the courage to produce work that could ignite minds and provoke necessary changes to society, too many designers lack the backbone to startle the world! I found myself coming back to the same image, again and again, daydreaming about it as the cover of my book... This image is none other than a photograph of yours—presumably taken for and originally published in Vogue Australia. I honestly admire the visually stunning work often produced by Vogue, among many other fashion magazines.

I admire the impetus to be on the cutting edge of society… To push the envelope in terms of the way we view the world around us, and to ignite a sense of beauty even in the most tedious of lives. A great poem, likewise, is one that teaches us to look at the world in a way we hadn't known how to look before—and I hope my book does just this. If you would like a testament of my work, here is an example of one of the blurbs that will appear on the back cover of the book—graciously provided by the beloved Palestinian-American poet, Naomi Shihab Nye: "The utter originality of these poems makes me bow down. Llompart's breathtaking instinct for image and intuitive sense of pacing creates poems which feel like magnetic force fields, whole landscapes of perception. A mind is quieted—changed." I genuinely hope these incredibly generous words are true about my work. I also hope enough people obtain the book and read it in order to decide what kind of writing it is for themselves. But I am not, I must admit, what might be considered a regular poet. At least, I don’t think I am…

I believe that poets, particularly my age, are expected to stay at home quietly reading a colossal amount of poetry and writing a modest amount of it. Your average poet occasionally sends their work out into the world via traditional methods of publishing—these things called literary journals, which serve an important, but rather limited function… Which is to circulate contemporary poetry among those already reading it. Your average poet whispers into the universe their desire to have their work read—not by many, but read at all. This seems like a rather sad existence to me, and not one I intend to lead. I would hire pilots to write poetry in the sky if I could only afford it! I would duck-tape poems to bathroom stalls, I would graffiti them across buildings, if I thought it would get more people to read the genre. I probably will do all those things someday… I’ve already taken myself out on more than one reading tour with just a handful of homemade chapbooks of my poems and drawings—even though you aren't really expected to give any tours until you have an actual book to sell to the audience.

I have stood on street-corners with a cardboard sign that read "POET PLEASE HELP" as a kind of performance piece—to engage strangers in discussion of how many artists struggle to make a living… While on tour, I’ve traded my work for shelter, meals, and artwork halfway around the world. I was even encouraged to read one of my poems at Stonehenge this past summer—to a small crowd nearly entirely dressed as druids or fairies which had gathered to celebrate the solstice (and stayed awake through a miserable rain that came down on us all night). That same trip, I shared another poem with a much more intimate gathering of complete strangers… This time in the common room of a hostel on the coast of Ireland. I began because one visitor was particularly drunk and being uncomfortably loud and crude. But by the third line, everyone in the room (even him) was paying rapt attention to my reading. Our formerly belligerent friend was so soothed he spent the rest of the evening quietly doddering about his nostalgia for simpler boyhood days spent lost in Irish lyric verse.

Ultimately, I hope that's what my poetry does… That it sobers up the obnoxiously drunk, and that it intoxicates the obnoxiously sober.

In all honesty, my own publisher doesn't believe you’d be willing to grant us the rights to the usage of the photograph I’ve requested, because our budget to cover any copyright fee is laughably small. This is a testament to the dismal state that the world of poetry is in, Mr. Davidson. There is absolutely no money in it… So nobody writes or publishes poetry for the money at all—but merely for the love of it. Poets are often told that nobody even reads the genre anymore—but I believe that’s mainly because it isn't sold in a glossy way, and therefore hasn't kept up with the pace of the advertising boom of the last few generations. I hope a younger generation of far bolder poets will soon change this—will collaborate much more freely with actors, choreographers, dancers, directors, musicians, and many other multimedia artists. That they will bring the spoken and written word back up to speed (perhaps up to speed for the first time) with the rest of the visual and performing arts world. I like to believe that poetry—that all forms of writing—will always have a place at that ever evolving table.

This (among many other reasons) is why I am not merely asking… I’m begging—imploring even—that you grant us permission. Your photograph is so seductive, so animalistic, so beautiful, so powerful, and so poetic (I could sincerely go on and on) that I don’t think I could possibly be satisfied with another cover at this point… I dream of a world in which fashion photography is respected as the art form that it can be—having as much substance as any painting or poem. Likewise, I dream of a world in which poetry isn’t considered boring or inaccessible—but just as vital as news, or as evocative as music. I know that I’m dreaming big... If you were a dreamer once too, or still are one, please send me kind words and good news. Perhaps even (dare I ask?) a high resolution (at least 300 DPI) version of the image by March 1st!

I hope this finds you very well…

Sincerely,

Cecilia Llompart

p.s. You can, if you like, listen to a poem of mine for yourself here.”

To which I received a response that was even shorter, and even MORE remarkable than the one I got from the editor… Only this time—it was from the photographer in question:

“Hi Cecilia,

Thanks for the email. I give you permission to use the image.

Let me know where to send it to?

Will”

“Many photographers feel their client is the subject. My client is a woman in Kansas who reads Vogue. I'm trying to intrigue, stimulate, feed her. My responsibility is to the reader. The severe portrait that is not the greatest joy in the world to the subject may be enormously interesting to the reader.” 📸

~ Irving Penn

{ my 1st book has been in the world for 10 years! }

Dear (few remaining) readers, I hope you can forgive me. I know that I’ve been quiet on here lately, despite promising (myself) this would be the one place I wouldn’t disappear from. I’d initially hoped to use this space to rediscover my voice as a writer… To bring the story of where I come from & why I do what I do a little more into focus for my followers. Perhaps even to reinvent myself as an artist along the way. I then hoped to use this space to connect with (& boost the work of) other artists who I admire.

But the more closely I pay attention to what’s going on in the world—the more self-indulgent it feels to post or promote anything personal… Lately, I’ve begun to wonder if carrying a perpetually broken & constantly aching heart is merely the condition of being alive today. To have made it this far, survived for this long, grown this resilient & this strong—only to continue to bear witness to such staggering destruction. Truly, there are days when the weight feels unbearable—yet we must find a way to bear it.

I’ve never liked just how easy it is to turn a blind eye—especially in countries such as ours—nor how powerfully sedated everyone in contemporary society seems. The hypocrisy of my own statement is not lost on me (as someone who relies heavily on meds to avoid falling apart)… But there are wars that wreck the world, wreak havoc on the collective conscience, & will haunt us for a long time to come. These are events we must shoulder & share the guilt for. I believe we’ve been witnessing one in real time…

{ protest in Washington D.C. }

I’ve been struggling to write this essay for well over 150 days… For over 150 days, we’ve all struggled to make sense of—struggled even to stomach—world news. Forgive me, dear readers—for perhaps I presume too much by including you in this collective grief… Yet how could you not be struggling alongside the rest of humanity? Unless you are one of those who has turned off & away from any & all news entirely—in an attempt to preserve your own faltering sanity.

But sadly for me, I swallow world news like a daily dose of poison… Every morning, the headlines wait patiently alongside supplements & prescribed medications—knowing I’ll eventually falter. Sure enough, before I’ve even finished my cup of coffee, one of the central causes of my depression enters my body & unsettles my nervous system… I surf through clickbait & start to doom-scroll as easily as I swallow the antidepressant that’s supposed to counteract these heavy feelings.

{ sign in Washington D.C. }

How long have I been this deeply depressed? More importantly, how long have I been this fearful? I can date both states of being back to age nine or ten at most… But my memory becomes difficult to trust before then—because of a series of distressing events that punctured several holes into an otherwise carefree childhood. Caring about others—sometimes far removed from myself—served as a way to distance myself from emotional dangers lurking closer at hand…

Still, until recently, I remained hopeful about the state of things. Pragmatic, certainly. Cautiously optimistic. Maybe even a party-pooper from time to time (okay, a lot of the time). But a doomsayer? Never! Certainly not one of those seers holding a cardboard sign & shouting at strangers about the coming of the end… Except lately, I find myself actively resisting making such a spectacle of myself. Or worse, fighting the urge to curl up into a ball & do nothing at all.

{ sticker in Portland, OR }

If you’re still with me, dear reader, I salute you… However, I cannot guarantee you a happy (nor even a truly satisfactory) ending. In fact, I can almost guarantee you will get nothing worth making it this far. If I seem to make light or poke fun—please know that it is only to keep us limping along to the sobering tune of reality. It’s no secret that I’ve been struggling to believe in the goodness of humanity… That I’m even beginning to doubt any prospect of seeing a better future.

Whenever I reach this point, I remind myself of the fact that I started referring to myself as an existentialist by the age of sixteen—just to cope with belonging to a blind-folded society in a cruelly unjust world. Here in America, we are hindered by our inherited fear & our bottomless greed… We are taught to mind our own business, to commercialize our every last breath, to make a profit from our pastimes, to grieve quickly, & to grin while we take our beatings.

{ friend in Washington D.C. }

If we dare complain, we are told to be quiet & grateful for the little we’re given because of a carefully constructed illusion that there isn’t enough to go around. When our neighbor has something we don’t have, we find it easier to covet & bad-mouth them rather than learn to share or celebrate the success of others. But despite being raised in what I was taught to judge as a morally bankrupt & impulse-driven culture, I held out hope for a gentler & kinder world.

I clung tightly to this hope—just as I did to the belief that I was doing the things that would help usher in a better future for all. I voted, I volunteered, I recycled, I rallied, I protested, I marched, I organized, I demonstrated, I educated, & I boycotted… In short, I showed up. I saw many small changes & kept right on hoping for a big change to come—to sweep the entire nation—maybe even in my lifetime. I prayed I’d live to see the day we joined hands & burst into song.

{ rest-stop in South Carolina }

After the end of the first month of this relentless war—which is just another in a series of relentless wars against innocents—I shared some thoughts that started with the words: “These are not dark times we live in... These are simply the times—& things have been dark for quite a while.” I then lost the will to share my true sentiments almost anywhere except for in conversation—either fighting back or releasing tears. In those early days, I wept far more than I spoke.

I circulated the news relentlessly. Not because I felt like it made any real difference—but rather, to keep myself from going numb… I donated to relief efforts & tried to encourage friends to do the same. I, too, cried for a ceasefire. Then I, too, slowly stopped waiting for it. As our own government continues to unmask & reveal itself to be the fully unhinged monster it has become—perhaps always has been—I see how I, too, am complicit… How perhaps I always have been.

{ reading in Philadelphia, PA }

Westerners all over the globe have spent several lucrative centuries in blissfully ignorant slumber & will be waking to an incredibly grim reality. Some are waking sooner than others, while some will continue to deny the effects humans have had on the planet until they find themselves more personally affected… A handful might even remain miraculously unscathed—emerging on the other side of this tunnel we’re digging ourselves deeper & deeper into.

If I’m going to be brutally honest here, my friends: I will admit that I no longer see a light at the end of this tunnel… But I can still feel its glow. I’ve stopped praying to see better days—am in fact resigning myself to never seeing them with my own two eyes—but I haven’t stopped praying that our children or our children’s children might. I haven’t stopped praying for the innocent. Nor for the planet, itself… Which—as the poet Joy Harjo taught me—has personhood.

{ exhibit in New Orleans, LA }

To be honest, dear readers… I thought I was done with poetry. I grew weary of the elitist gate-keeping at every level & found it frustrating to sit with what felt like intentionally complicated books. During the lockdown, I discovered a budding desire to belong to a broader community of caregivers & councilors—to a workforce that got their hands dirty. I’m grateful to have found just that in pursuit of art therapy with special education training.

Yet it seems poetry wasn’t quite done with me. I find the words spilling out of me & onto the page again—though it still doesn’t feel like the right time to share them. I don’t know if that time will ever come, but I can see in the eyes of my students the bitter cost of all this silence. I can see how weary the newest generation already feels. I put into their hands the work of poets such as Fatimah Asghar & Safia Elhillo because I trust their words more than mine.

{ display in Lakeland, FL }

Instead of imagining better days to come—which now seems to me just one more form of escapism—I’ve been trying to anchor myself in the love that I’m given in the moment that it is given, & in the glimmers of divine light I feel privy to in the presence of nature. My greatest remaining comfort is this: Somehow, strangely—& maybe even for the first time in my life—I’m not afraid. I’m gritting my teeth & committed to not going anywhere… I’m here for all of it.

If all I can do is bear witness, then I won’t look away until my heart gives out from fully breaking. I’ve rolled up my sleeves & I’m praying my knees don’t give way. I used to fear death, but I see it everywhere now—the way it weaves everyone together. I won’t let anything stop me from planting seeds & hoping they’ll grow—for the sake of those already born into this very broken world, & for the ones whose karma will bring them back… To suffer—or to feast off fruit we plant today.

{ digital collage made on Martin Luther King Jr. Day }

“Healing is impossible in loneliness; it is the opposite of loneliness. Conviviality is healing. To be healed we must come with all the other creatures to the feast of Creation.” ~ Wendell Berry

I turned 38 last weekend, which means I’ve officially been writing poetry for two decades… Over half of my life! So I suppose it’s about time I tell my origin story on here. Not as a writer—since that dates back to as soon as I was capable of holding a pencil and clever enough to invent my own words—but as the poet who followed a path centered around that specific genre towards a graduate degree, a published book, and a few teaching gigs (that eventually ran dry). But the truth is that I never meant to box myself in as a poet, per say, though for a time it felt fitting to refer to myself as one… If only because it seemed like the easiest, most fulfilling, maybe even marketable thing to do as a bilingual, multi-hyphenate artist coming of age before we all stopped believing in a future in academia.

The Sweet Shop Cafe in Tallahassee, FL { circa 1924 }

It all began at a humble cafe that has stayed in business over the years thanks to the loyalty of the students across the street. Truly, it was proximity which brought us to The Sweet Shop Cafe with such regularity more than it was the offerings at said establishment… These ranged from milkshakes to Italian sodas to Boba teas and encompassed every type of handheld, sandwich, or wrap imaginable. But if I’m being entirely honest, it all began with a hilarious sandwich board made of cardboard and advertising a poetry club in permanent marker.

I had only recently arrived along with the newest crop of freshmen to Florida State University, but I was already eager to declare myself a creative writing major and find my tribe. Therefore, the very moment our families (at least, those members who had driven or come along to install us into our dorms) had dissipated—and all that remained of the crowd on campus was students who lived or professors who taught there—I set off in search of a sign. It came far sooner than I expected—right as I rounded a corner to the brick courtyard under student union…

In fact, I almost smacked face first into it! Rounding the same corner except coming from the opposite direction were two young men… One of them had recently become a creative writing major himself, and would go on to publish several beautiful books. But at the time, all I knew of these students is that they were both wearing handmade sandwich boards which slung over their shoulders using twine to attach the front and back sides. In the time it took to apologize, I noticed their signs advertised a group called the Society Of Poetic Elements… (Or S.O.P.E. for short.)

I attended their next meeting, and found myself the only freshman (and female) student sitting at a table of about four or five other juniors and seniors. They met every Thursday night, and waxed philosophical about poetry for about two hours… Encouraging each other to read so-and-so or try such-and-such technique to improve a recent draft. I marveled at the sheer quantity of names of still living poets they knew and dropped so easily. I forced myself to read even my worst results of the generative prompts, and blushed at their kind remarks.

Growing up, I’d already been part of choirs, orchestras, theatre ensembles, and many a collective performance before. But it was at The Sweet Shop Cafe where I was born a poet—and in this place that I finally learned what it meant to be in community with fellow writers… I honestly consider myself fortunate that it was such a decent experience, and that it prepared me for my first official workshop—which didn’t occur until the following semester. To this day, I feel as though I owe a debt of gratitude to Glenn, Karl, Phil, and Todd for being so dear.

There were other members who I’m choosing not to name… One, the founder of S.O.P.E who I didn’t meet and become friends with until many years later. Two, a dear-hearted and dearly-departed soul whose name I will refrain from saying out of respect for his relatives. Three, the other wearer of the sandwich board (whose behavior towards me wasn’t ok, so I’m not ready to open up about that right now). Finally, the other students who wove in and out of the group—who helped me keep it going after the original members graduated. I owe them thanks, too!

Lately, I’ve struggled to identify as a poet. It’s certainly still the genre I’ve spent the most time appreciating, contemplating, studying, utilizing, etc. It has shaped me—led me so much farther than I could’ve dreamed—and being one is a dream that continues to guide my steps… Just not all of them. Not even most of them, anymore. The years I spent so certain of that identity were beautiful, but oftentimes heart-breaking ones... I learned that a poet is a lonely beast of burden here on earth—often tasked with bearing witness to far too much.

Still, it felt good to return… A full twenty years after I first walked through its front door—first put pen to paper in my beloved poetry journal—this so-called cafe has barely changed. The sunken couches and the tall-backed benches look as dingy yet inviting as ever… The wood-paneled walls have sustained another few generations worth of signatures, yet somehow remain the same shade of mustard yellow… The ceiling hasn’t been replaced, and the hand-drawn advertisements look trippy as ever… Maybe some things never change. {to be cont.}

“The sound of silence

Is all [of] the instruction

You [will ever] get”

~ Jack Kerouac [et moi]

Something happens between birth and death that forces us to slow down. I don’t know when I began, but I like to think I’ve been doing the work of digging myself out from beneath the rubble of my own past. This entails creating a space that feels safe enough to read through the journals of my youth—to unlock those still painful memories—or to sort through photographs that play tenderly on my frayed heartstrings.

A new (for me) creative practice I have enjoyed doing for the purposes of this platform—this assemblage of my mixed-up memories—has been to pair photographs with journal entries (including drafts of poems) jotted down within the same time frame. Entries oftentimes only a few lines long… Yet combined with images captured that day (or even week), I’m delighted to discover what I was unable to write down.

It might simply be human nature to want to plow (or plod, for those of us who are on the slower side) forward into the future… That is, until we lose something which begs we retrace our steps. Or until age catches up with us—forcing us to catch our breath more and more often. Taught that time is linear, life is a race, and death is the finish line we’re all desperate to outrun—it’s little wonder we end up stalling!

Or worse, going around in circles… I imagine hell is repeating the same mistakes and never learning from them. A few years ago, the world stood still just long enough for me to catch my breath—to remember who I wanted to be: Someone who took ample time not simply to stop and smell flowers, but lingered long enough to write a haiku (or two)… Who talked for hours with trees… Who listened well—listened closely.

I spent the global lock-down going up and down a handful of streets in that Parisian suburb which I called home at the time—slowly walking my dog because it was one of the few authorized activities (outside of going to work) I could do. I already knew I was saying goodbye… Not just to a city I loved, but also to a self that no longer served me: An identity grown stiff from wear and tear now stifling my future growth.

It wasn’t easy for me to peel back the layers—nor was it easy for those close enough to me to bear witness to the wreckage. I sought solace in silence and steady movement… I wrote haiku as I walked as a form of meditation. Taking stock once more of the smallest wonders all around me—how they enhanced what was made with tools or by hand—at last, I trusted this beauty would follow me anywhere I went.

~ Parisian Blues ~{ { in 25 haiku & 1 tanka } }

~

Paris is a state
of mind—as much as it is
the sun on your face.

~

In Spring—I worry
the cherry blossoms will fall
before you return…

~

« Nos amis les chiens
ne sont pas admis » read the
sign outside the park.

~

Nine white round pots and
eight black square ones guard
the side door to the hotel.

~

English ivy crawls
under a black wrought iron
fence with spear-like tips.

~

Potted cacti peek
through windows at posters of
the Golden Gate Bridge.

~

A mustard colored
splatter of moss stains the base
of solemn oak trees.

~

There aren’t many
leaves left on the ground… Winter
has digested them.

~

« Doucement » I find
myself whispering when I
step over the stones.

~

Catching my breath on
a bench—the wind rustles the
bamboo behind me.

~

A young woman in
glasses stops to read the words
engraved on a plaque.

~

rue Joseph Bernard
named for a « sculpteur »
who died (1931).

~

The bark on these trees
looks blue compared to the ne-
on of the bamboo.

~

Hearts made of paper
hang above the flower shop—
moss tickles my feet.

~

A magnolia
tree helps the noisy din of
traffic seem dampened.

~

At night—fake candles
draw me toward a window
of fragrant flowers.

~

A stone face with a
surprised expression still hangs
over the blue door.

~

Teenagers curse in
Arabic while loading crates
of bread onto vans.

~

« Vous étés des cons un
chat est fugueur » scribbled on
the lost cat flier.

~

« J’avais pas eu le
temps de le réfléchir— » said
the man cycling past.

~

A dirty blanket—
with leopard spots printed on
it—waits in the rain.

~

Pink feathers float down
murky gutter water then
disappear from sight.

~

A grey-haired woman
plays songs from Amelie on
her accordion.

~

« Je voir la lune ! » says
the child—pointing at the sky.
« Bien joué » says the mom.

~

In Spring—anger chills
my bones, despite these flowers
stuffed in my pockets.

~

A cigarette butt
bounces off the back of a
speeding motorbike

inches away from my face
before landing in the street.

~